


L'Illusionniste

by CloudAtlas



Series: All Hallows Eve 2014, Be_Compromised Style [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, Street Performers, Street Rats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 00:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2527088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every night she sees him, just out of the reach of the fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Illusionniste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetwatersong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetwatersong/gifts), [andibeth82](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/gifts).



Every night she sees him, just out of the reach of the fire. He stands by the entry to the alley, almost-but-not-quite hiding behind the post holding up the awning for the shack next door, and watches her as if he’s never seen anything quite as amazing before. It’s flattering, and the best thing about her evenings.

Natalia spins, dancing with her ribbons and performing her tricks, creating distractions and illusions to hide the fact that Ivan has pickpockets in the crowd, relieving curious passers-by of small items of value he feels are more suited to his dignity; gold chains, strings of pearls, fob watches with mother of pearl inlays. She’s the butterfly to draw away attention, draped in silk more worn than the fire reveals. And what attention she draws! Children with wide eyes, old men with wandering eyes and young men with wandering hands.

And him.

She is little more than a street performer – the flourishing hand to distract from the card hidden up the sleeve – but at least she has a roof over her head and Ivan to feed her. This boy is worse off; a street rat the likes of which are kicked by stallholders, spat on by publicans and shunned by merchants. Grubby and unwashed and probably smelling strongly of stale sweat, desperation and grime, not that Natalia has ever got close enough to find out.

But he watches her as if she could disappear if he looked away; as if she were a fire sprite, deadly and beautiful, holding all the treasures of the world in her palms, when in reality she holds only tatty silk and tarnished brass.

If she were ever to approach him, Ivan would box her around the ears. No boy like that would be able to pay for anything Ivan sells, and he certainly could not afford Natalia. He’s not _worth_ approaching, but oh, how she wishes to.

So instead she dances, all the while watching as his eyes follow her in her flimsy dress, each turn showing more bare leg than proper, more pale arm than seemly. She turns in the firelight, her hair a ruddy halo around her head, and imagines that it is just the two of them; no children and no men, neither young nor old. His gaze his heavy on her shoulders, but all this time he has neither catcalled her nor laid hands on her, unlike so many others, so his attention is far from unwelcome.

She does not know where he goes during the day but he is always here come the evening, watching.

For some reason Natalia wants to know this street boy more than she has wanted anything for quite some time, and one day she will speak to him; find his name, learn his face. 

The threat of Ivan will not stop her forever.

 

They have been in this part of town for two weeks now, and Ivan wants to move on before winter sets in properly, but Natalia is not so sure. This town is better than others; it has more food and better shelter, and a mission off the main square that gives warm coats in exchange for a few coins.

She is coming back from that mission, passing through the market, when she sees him.

His poverty is more apparent in the cold light of day than the warm glow of the fire. His cheeks are sunken and his skin grubby. He is loitering around a stall selling bread, currently unobserved by the stallholder, but probably not for long. Street rats are unwelcome at the best of times but thieves even less so.

However, as she stands watching she sees him casually brush up against the stall for a moment, his hand darting out to grab a fresh roll before squirrelling it away into some hidden pocked of his enormous tatty coat. The stallholder doesn’t even notice.

It happens so quickly Natalia feels that it is _he_ , not she, that should be the illusionist, fingers quick enough to impress even Ivan. But even as she thinks this, he is disappearing down the alley behind him.

Natalia makes a split second decision. After all, Ivan is not here to box her ears.

She takes some few coins from her pocket, left over from the purchase of her coat, and quickly buys two mugs of hot soup from the vendor beside the bread stall. Then, praying that the boy has not gone far, she heads into the alleyway.

He is at the end, wedged into a filthy corner and utterly focussed on the roll in his hands, tearing at it as though he has not eaten in days and is terrified that it will be taken from him before he can finish.

The boy does not react to her presence, even when she is almost within touching distance. It is only when she accidentally kicks over something – a can or the hoop from a barrel – that he notices, shooting up from his place in the corner with a posture that clearly indicates he expects a fight.

When he sees who it is, his eyes go comically wide and he flushes with embarrassment.

“I have brought you soup,” Natalia says, somewhat awkwardly. 

His eyes snap to her mouth, then to the mug in her hands, but he makes no motion to take it from her.

“Soup,” she says again, holding it out.

He looks wary, and still makes no motion towards the mug in her hands. Instead he reaches out and, when Natalia does not immediately react negatively, very softly touches his filthy hand to her cheek, drawing it back almost instantly with a soft exhalation and a further widening of his eyes.

Natalia realises that he did not believe her to be real.

“I am real,” Natalia says with a small smile. “My name is Natalia.”

His eyes track her mouth, but he looks at a loss. He clenches his hands briefly before, embarrassed and angry, pointing to his head – no, his ears – and shaking his head.

He is deaf, Natalia realises.

For a moment she is at a complete loss, but she feels she should not leave. So instead she pushes the soup into his hands, before smoothing her hair from her face and gently touching her chest.

“Natalia,” she says, as clear as she can make it, and she watches at the boy mimes the shape of the word before nodding once. Then, after a brief moment of deliberation he touches his hand to his own chest, forcing out a word Natalia only just understands.

“Clint,” he says.


End file.
